


Running to you

by XCuteAsHale



Series: Tumblr Drabbles [4]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Fluff, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, M/M, Not Beta'd, Self-Harm, mentioned allison/lydia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-22
Updated: 2016-09-22
Packaged: 2018-08-16 15:24:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,303
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8107657
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/XCuteAsHale/pseuds/XCuteAsHale
Summary: It felt like the time he’d placed a cigarette to his wrist as a stupid teenager, trying to impress some girl he’d forgotten the name of years ago.
--
Proof that I'm able to write fluff. With a dash of angst.





	

It felt like the time he’d placed a cigarette to his wrist as a stupid teenager, trying to impress some girl he’d forgotten the name of years ago. The pain was just as clean. As searing hot. As unforgiving. It had his body tense up in the same way, like his instincts were screaming at him to run away from the pain, to outrun the source of the discomfort - like it remembered when he did, when he’d been a stupid teenager trying to impress some girl, when he’d dropped the cigarette, leaving only a perfectly scorched circle in it’s wake. And his body was moving, wasn’t it? It was running, his legs moving without checking in with his brain, though the thought was barely there long enough for him to figure that his brain wouldn’t process it anyway. But he was running. Running towards the pain, towards the unpleasant heat, towards.. Towards his life. He was running towards his life because his life, his Peter, had left the house that morning with a leering grin and a dirty comment about his ass. Because his life had forgotten his coffee cup on the counter, like he did every morning, and because Chris had brought it with him, like he did every morning. He was running towards the pain because his life had texted him at lunch to ask if they still had an appointment with Allison and Lydia next week, if they were still going out with the new couple for dinner, if they should coordinate their calendars. Because apparently that was something they did now. Sharing dinner dates with Allison and Lydia, who had finally taken the step to get together after pining after one another all the way through college, who had finally accepted that Peter was a part of Chris’ life, that he was his life. He was running towards the pain because his Peter was getting old, because they both were, with creaking bones and graying hair. He was running despite the protests coming from his knees, from his back, from his lungs. 

 

Chris had placed a cigarette to his wrist as a teenager to impress some girl, and now he could feel the pain all over again, could feel the heat dragging itself over his body, suffocating him. He could feel the pain again, tenfolds this time, because a woman had answered Peter’s phone when he called to ask if they needed anything from the store. He was running now because the woman sounded so much like Erica that he almost had to take a double take, until he noticed the shakiness of her voice, because Erica never sounded so nervous. Chris had placed a cigarette towards his wrist as a teenager to impress some girl, and now he felt the pain once again, because some woman with a shaky voice had answered Peter’s phone.

 

Chris was running towards the pain. He was running towards the hurt, because now he was an adult, because he had lived a lifetime - he had the experience of a lifetime behind him, he wasn’t trying to impress some girl. He was running towards the pain now because his life, his Peter, had once complained for forty-five minutes straight because Chris had dared to take it for granted that he was ordering for Peter. He was running towards the pain because even after complaining for forty-five minutes straight Peter took it for granted too, because he knew Chris, and Chris knew him. He was running because his life, his Peter, cried when they watched Disney’s Bambi and laughed during The Notebook. Chris was running towards the pain because his life, his Peter, was unable to lose at scrabble so everyone had learnt to quietly loose and simply smile behind his back, he was running because he knew that his Peter  _ knew  _ what they were doing, that he appreciated it. He was running because Peter’s knees would start acting up before the rain came, because his knuckles would hurt for the same reason, because Allison would laugh at them and Lydia would coo at their graceful aging. He was running now because of Peter’s undignified sneer whenever he heard the girls talking, because of the way he smiled at Chris behind their backs, because of the way he would whisper words of a life long lived between them at night. Chris was running towards the pain, through the pain, because he had a lifetime's worth of experience behind him.

 

Chris was running now, closing in on the pain, feeling it in his chest as he ran past people without taking in their faces. He was running because his life, his Peter, his sarcastic, arrogant, kind and passionate Peter had left him a post-it-note on the bathroom mirror demanding that Chris shaved, because they were both getting too old for beard rashes in uncomfortable places. He was running because his life, his Peter, had given him the opportunity to correct him, to remind him how much he did like the beard rash Chris would leave behind in the most comfortable places. Chris was running now because his Peter was still the sly fox he’d fallen in love with, because he would still call Derek up only to give advice expertly concealed as insults, because he would still gush about his favourite, and only, nephew behind his back but deny the words to his face. Chris was running towards the pain, running past people with faces he didn’t care to recognize, because some woman with a shaky voice had answered his life’s, his Peter’s, phone. Chris was running now, closing in on the pain, counting the doors until he came to the right one, because his life, his Peter, had woken him with a soft kiss today.

 

“Chris.”

 

Chris stopped running, stopped breathing, because he had reached the room now, the room the woman with the shaky voice had said when she answered his lifes, his Peter’s, phone.

 

“There has been an accident,” That’s what she had said, “He’s at room 221.”

 

Chris stopped running, because the pain that had weighed down on his shoulders, the one just like the time he’d burned his wrist with a cigarette as a teenager to impress some girl, it had disappeared. Chris stopped running because his life, his Peter, was sitting on the hospital bed, looking at him with soft eyes and bruises littering his body.

 

“Jesus, did you run all the way over to the hospital? I can practically smell you all the way from over there.” 

 

Chris stopped running, slowing down to a walk, because his life, his Peter, was sitting on the hospital bed with soft eyes and a sneer on his lips. He walked up to him, to the man who had once only been part of his life, but now was his life, and he kissed him. 

 

“I love you.” 

 

Chris whispered the words against Peter’s lips, not because he didn’t think Peter didn’t know, not because he was afraid that it wouldn’t have been the last thing he would have said should the pain have found reason to take control. He whispered them because Peter prefered chinese food over Mexican. He whispered them against his lips because Peter hogged the remote on Tuesday nights when his show came on no matter who came to visit. He whispered them against his lips because Peter’s knees started aching before the rain came and his knuckles acted the same way. He whispered them against Peter’s lips because they had a lifetime's worth of experience, because it was certain, because it was them. Chris whispered the words against Peter’s lips, because he meant it with all of his soul, and he smiled when Peter gave a whispered response.

  
“I love you too. And you really need a shower.”


End file.
